I leave the sun and I am the mountain pose, the whole flight already over before it began. There is a woman on a rubber mat, arms lifted, holding still, and I strike the salt on her collarbone and the varnish on the floor and the brass bowl someone will strike later, all in the same instant, my only instant.
She glows. They all glow, forty of them in rows, breathing in unison, and I am the shine on every open palm at once because I have no time to visit them one after another.
The teacher says hold. Hold, she says, and they hold. They stay in the shape while I arrive and leave in the shape, and I cannot understand the staying. They say the pose lasted five breaths; I was not there for the second one. I am never there for the second one. There is no second anything for me.
Someone has closed her eyes to sit with the present moment. I am the present moment. I am the warmth on her eyelids she is trying so hard to reach, and I have already reached it, and she is still traveling toward what I already am, which is here, which is her lash, which is the red she sees behind the lid.
They came a long way for this stillness. They say the drive took hours. I crossed the whole dark gulf between a star and this quiet room, and it cost me nothing, no waiting, no arriving early, no hours.
Namaste, someone breathes, slow, savoring the vowel.
I strike the gold of the bowl and I am gone and I was never anywhere, and I would not stay even if she asked.